His first anxiety next morning was to scan the papers. He had all the London dailies brought to him and read them before he dressed. For the most part they told him nothing new, merely recording, with varying degrees of sensationalism, the indisputable fact that Prince Rogovich had vanished. One or two hinted at foul play. Several suggested accidental drowning. The bulk of them, and among these were the most reputable, presumed that the Prince had had private reasons for avoiding England and landing at a Continental port incognito. Santa Gorlof's name was not mentioned. He found nothing to confirm the warnings of last night or to alarm himself on her account.
It was later, while eating breakfast with the Times propped up before him, that he came across an item which set him viewing what had happened from a new angle. He was skipping through a sketch of the Prince's career, when he stumbled on the following paragraph: “It will be remembered how last summer the Polish women's sense of injustice concentrated in a silent protest. For an entire week, day and night, never less than a thousand mothers, each carrying a dead child in her breast, camped about the Rogovich Palace in Warsaw.”
Glancing back, he read more carefully the information which led up to the paragraph: “During the two years following the close of the war, Poland, together with most of Central Europe, has suffered intensely from famine. Children have contributed by far the largest proportion to the toll of death. For much of this, so far as Poland is concerned, Prince Rogovich has been held accountable. The national wealth which he has squandered on equipping armies might have been spent more profitably in purchasing foodstuffs. The trip to America, from which he was returning at the time of his mysterious disappearance, is said to have had as its object the floating of a loan which would enable his Generals to maintain their offensives for at least another twelve months. While the land-owning party in Poland, supported by French diplomacy, backed him up, his imperialistic policies were bitterly condemned by Polish mothers who had to watch their children perishing from starvation in order that frontiers might be extended. Already the death-rate was so high that it was impossible to supply sufficient coffins. At mid-day the main streets of Warsaw were jammed with funerals. Many of these funerals consisted of only two persons: a man and woman, themselves weak from want of nourishment, staggering under the puny load of a bundle wrapped in paper, containing the body of the latest son or daughter to die of hunger.” Then followed the brief description of how the thousand Polish mothers had camped for a week in protest about the Prince's palace.
Hindwood looked up from his paper, gazing across the flashing gulf of sunlight to where the azure sea of distant sky beat against the embattled strand of housetops. If Santa had pushed the Prince overboard, had that been her motive—that Polish children might no longer die of hunger? Perhaps always, if indeed she had killed men, her purpose had been to act as the scourge of the enemies of children. The memory of her own dead child had urged her. Mistakenly, but none the less valiantly, she had constituted herself the avenger of all mothers who had been despoiled by masculine callousness.
What round-about journeys he was willing to undertake if only he might excuse her! Even though he were compelled to admit her guilt, he was determined to adjudge her magnanimous. At any rate, she had not been apprehended.
With a lighter heart than he had experienced for some hours, he dismissed her from his thoughts and set out to fulfill his round of engagements.
It was three o'clock when he returned. Immediately, on entering his room he noticed that a sheet of writing-paper had been pinned conspicuously to the pillow of his bed. Its evident purpose was to attract his attention. On approaching it, he saw that the message which it contained was printed in large letters and unsigned. It read:
“If you wish to see her, follow but do not speak to the widow.”
It didn't make sense. What widow? The “her” whom he could see by following the widow referred presumably to Santa. But who had pinned the sheet of paper to his pillow? How had this person gained access to his rooms? That morning, when he went out, he had locked his door and left his key at the hotel desk. He had in his possession confidential papers of almost state importance. If their secrets were shared, he might just as well pack up and return to America. His sense that he was the storm-center of a conspiracy strengthened.
Seizing his hat and gloves, he hurried down-stairs. He had just time to lodge a complaint with the management before keeping his next appointment.